


Fauxbury: The Bandits

by RavenTheJoker



Series: Edward Fauxbury [2]
Category: Fauxbury, Original Work
Genre: Detective, Murder Mystery, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-24 17:51:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10746792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenTheJoker/pseuds/RavenTheJoker
Summary: The story follows Edward Fauxbury, a self-proclaimed hunter of the paranormal, whose dream is to come into contact with unnatural and occult beings and powers. Unfortunately, people often come to his office with problems that have next to nothing to do with any supernatural activities. Thus, he often has to pretend to be a medium...





	Fauxbury: The Bandits

Not all cases I took during my career turned out to be the results of the supernatural. Of course, that is the way of things in any profession reearching or otherwise touching such subjects. Yet there is one client from nearly a decade ago, thinking about whom even today chills my blood to the extreme.

She appeared at my doorstep at seven o’clock in the morning sharp. I barely opened the doors of my office when I heard a sob come from behind me. I turned around. Before me stood a young woman, around twenty years in age. A perfect bundle of despair. She wore all black, a black veil covered her face, with a black handkerchief she was drying her tears. Behind her stood a man, around thirty, a butler by the looks of it. Before I could react in any way, she blurted out:  
“Mr. Fauxbury?”  
“At your service,” I said with a slight bow.  
“Ah... “ she sobbed, “Mr. Fauxbury, I am in a dire need of your help.”  
“Of course.” I opened the office door. “Come on in, please, miss...”  
“Parker. Elizabeth Parker,” she said as she entered the room.

If you pardon me, I will not bore you with the full retelling of Ms. Parker’s speech. It was a long, overemotional monologue full of sobbing. In short, her problem was as follows:  
Not long ago, she got engaged to a young gentleman from a rich part of London. However, fate was not on their side. One week before their wedding, the young man died in a carriage accident. Now she would love to talk with her beloved one more time.  
At the end of her story I looked at her with empathy. It seemed like a usual case afterall.  
“I understand your loss and would be happy to help you. Now, when would a meeting be good for you so we can organize a seance-”  
“Why not now?” she asked suddenly.  
“Now?”  
“Is it not true that a connection with the deceased is easier in presence of their personal belongings?”  
“Well, yes, but-”  
“Charels’s parents disallowed me to enter their house after… after the incident,” she sobbed, “However… yesterday night they left for their house in the country, to give rest to their aching hearts. Yet their servant, Mr. Barrow,” she gestured to the man standing besides her, “had promised me access to Charels’s room. But only today. Please, Mr. Fauxbury, I plead you, helpe me today!”  
I pride myself on being a man not easily swayed by tears. Nonetheless, be it the morning hour or the sheer emotion, there was something in Ms. Parker’s sorrow that left me unable to say no.

We left immediately, stopping the first carriage we saw. At the time I was still unfamiliar with some of London’s districts, thus it was not surprising to find myself at an unfamiliar place. The house in front of which we stopped could easily be described as magnificent - at least by those with enough time to admire it.  
Mr. Barrow spirited a ring of keys from inside his coat and opened the front door. Once I had entered, there was again no time to admire the posh furniture as Ms. Parker pushed me to the stairs.  
“This way, this way,” she said with clear restlessness, “Go right, then take the third door to your left.”  
I followed her orders. A thing I still regret doing today.

In the middle of the room which I had entered lay a dead man surrounded by a pool of blood. I felt something hit the back of my head. My vision blured and I fell to my knees. A kick to my side made me fall onto the floor.  
Above me stood Barrow, a candelabra in hand. Next to him stood Ms. Parker. Not a sign of sorrow to be found. Now, there was only satisfaction.  
“Mr. Fauxbury,” she began, “allow me to express my sincerest gratitude. I am not sure if this plan would have worked without your help. You would be surprised how often they suspect the widow or the butler in case of murder. It’s hard to inherit with blood on your hands.  
“However, I am sure Scotland Yard will be more than happy to investigate the case of a charlatan, a fake occultist preying on the naive, wealthy, but good citizens, who spends his spare time as a burglar. I heard that one day he made a mistake, and the owner of the house caught him in the act.  
“The man died while protecting his belongings, but the burglar was not in a much better shape. During their struggle, the two of them even knocked over some candles.”  
As she said that, Barrow took the candles, setting fire to the drapes and the tapestries.  
“Oh, worry not. The police will arrive just in time to find your corpse burned enough to kill you, but not enough to make you unrecognizeable. Goodbye, Mr. Fauxbury.”  
Then barrow kicked me in the temple, and I lost conciousness.

It was a miracle that I came back to myself so fast. The scoundrels were already gone, of course, but the fire was spreading quickly. I stood up, with certain difficulties. Out of my pocketI took my handkerchief and covered my mouth and nose against the smoke. My head hurt like hell. I stumbled out of the room and down the stairs. The main hall was already in flames, too. The rest of the house as well, I presumed. There wa no point in trying the front door - even if I could get to it, they surely locked it. Instead, I made my way to the nearby window. I grabbed a chair and smashed it. I crawled out of the house. Just then, I could hear the police arrive. Luckily, it seemed that noone saw me. I sneaked my way to the back of the house and into the London streets.

The case was a complicated one, as my friend Timmothy told me. The house belonged to certain Mr. Hogsworth, a judge as I found out. A few months ago he got married. It was unknown with whom; he was a rather reclusive and lonely man. Only his servants attended the wedding, though all of them also burned with the house.  
It seemed that, however they found out, the criminals knew I survived the fire. The chase was then on. Unfortunately, I do not know enough about their case to say anything more. And, in all honesty, I am not complaining.

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this once for lit class in about an hour, later edited heavily. I actually really like this one.


End file.
